


Sam's Magic Fingers

by mrs_squirrel_chester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Borderline Smut, F/M, Gen, borderline NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 08:35:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11414181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_squirrel_chester/pseuds/mrs_squirrel_chester
Summary: After a brutal hunt, you’re battered and bruised, and in need of a massage. Enter, Sam Winchester.





	Sam's Magic Fingers

Being a hunter was hard on the body, and anyone who said otherwise wasn’t a real hunter. There were broken bones that needed setting, joints that needed to be popped back in, bruised and overextended muscles that needed ice, sprained ankles and wrists that needed rest; the list seemed endless.

After the last hunt, a werewolf that batted you around like a rag doll, you were recovering by lying on the couch, pillows under your hips and neck, watching Netflix, and flexing your sore feet. That led to rotating your bruised ankles, and praying to Castiel that your calves wouldn’t constrict painfully. You grimaced just thinking about having to jump off the couch and stand.

As a sharp pain danced through the arch of your foot, you couldn’t help but think that one of two things would feel like absolute heaven. A long soak in the bath or a massage. Since it was just you in the Bunker, a hot bath would suffice.

More than an hour later, your back was feeling slightly better. Although it didn’t hurt as bad to walk, your feet and legs were riddled with knots. Wearing shorts and one of Sam’s shirts you were convinced he didn’t know you had stolen, you padded back to the couch and eased yourself down, draping your legs over Sam’s thighs.

Tired eyes darted open. “Thought you’d gone to bed,” Sam gruffed, running a hand through his shaggy hair.

“I hurt too much,” you groaned. You rested your feet on the edge of the couch and pushed them into the plush cushion.

Sam shifted in his spot as he toed off his boots. “You take anything?”

“No, Sam,” you scoffed loudly. “I decided to see how much pain I could tolerate before popping some percocet.”

“Shut up,” he teased with a wink.

You rolled your eyes at him and stuck out your tongue. “Could you do me a favor?” you asked shyly.

“Hit me with it,” Sam responded, tilting his head to the side. The way his kaleidoscope eyes twinkled in the shitty fluorescent lighting made your heart stutter.

You had to swallow before you could speak. “Massage my calves and feet?”  

“On one condition,” Sam rasped, fingers of one hand hovering over your legs.

Rolling your bottom lip between your teeth, you pushed up to your elbows. “Name it.”

Sam was smirking when he said,  **“You have to promise not to fall in love with me.”**

You huffed out a nerve-laced laugh. “That’s it? No problem,” you lied. The Winchester brothers always said you had a tell when you lied; that was why they wouldn’t let you run any scams. Not yet, at least. Whether Sam noticed it or not, he hooked a hand under your ankle and started working his fingers into your exhausted calf muscles. It was as if his fingers held magical properties.

Groaning in appreciation, your head fell back. “Yeeeeeeees,” you rasped under your breath, his firm but gentle touch sending electricity sparking up your spine, pulling goosebumps to the surface.

Sam cleared his throat as he shifted in his seat. Without opening your eyes, you knew he was staring at you. Normally, you’d blush and turn away, but not this time. This time, you didn’t care how obscene the noises you made were, or that your back was arching, or that while Sam was massaging one leg, the other fell to the side; you didn’t want him to stop. Even when you hissed as he pushed his thumb along the arch of your right foot.

“Was that good or bad?” Sam murmured. “I can stop if it hurts.”

“Don’t you fucking dare, Sam Winchester,” you snapped, lifting your head. The breath hitched in your throat when you met his gaze. His cheeks and nose were ruddy, bottom lip rolling between his teeth, long fingers brushing delicately over your flushed skin, pupils dilating, and, if you weren’t mistaken, a bulge between his legs.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t found yourself lusting after Sam. Every time you looked at him, whether he was asleep, those long eyelashes fanning over his sun-kissed skin, or in the middle of a hunt, knee deep in a vampire nest, you wanted to wrap your legs around his waist and kiss him until he didn’t remember his own name.

With Sam’s hands on your right foot, you pressed your left one between his legs. Sam’s tongue darted out to dampen his bottom lip, and he failed to suppress a throaty moan. You put more pressure on his hardening cock, wiggling your toes back around when his hips rolled.

Sam ground out your name, his pupils dilating further. Despite the sore muscles in your back, you grabbed the back of the couch and used Sam’s legs for leverage; shifting your hips until you were straddling his lap.

“Was that good or bad? Because I can stop if it hurts.” you breathed, using Sam’s words against him. With Sam’s hands resting on your hips, you rolled them, sighing at the bite of blunt fingernails digging through the threadbare cotton shirt.

Licking his lips, Sam couldn’t keep his eyes from flicking down to your breasts, the pert nipples almost visible; all of it made his mouth water. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” was his breathy reply.

Chuckling low in your throat, you carded your fingers through his hair. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” you sighed before covering his lips with yours.

Sam moaned low, his chest rumbling against yours when you slanted your mouth over his and the damp heat of your tongue swept over his bottom lip. His grip tightened on your hips and ass, rocking your hips with his, his tongue invading your mouth, battling yours for dominance, kissing you until you couldn’t breathe. With a moan spilling from your mouth, Sam’s whisker-kissed chin scraped your neck, his lips and tongue soothing the burn. The two of you were so lost in the push and pull, the rise and fall, the soft curves and hard edges of each other, that you failed to notice Dean walking through the room.

“It’s about fuckin’ time,” Dean chuckled. He cracked open a beer as he dropped onto the couch where you had been sitting. “You mind? Got some mind-numbing shows to binge.”


End file.
